


Fifteen Ways To Stay Alive

by tallestgirlonearth



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Daphne Gottlieb, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 14:46:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10165307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tallestgirlonearth/pseuds/tallestgirlonearth
Summary: Realize that this love was not your trainwreck, was not the truck that flattened you, was not your Waterloo, did not cause massive hemorrhaging from a rusty knife. That love is still to come.Ayrton and Alain, in snippets.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by a photoset I saw on tumblr once and has stuck with me ever since, as well as Daphne Gottlieb's wonderful, heartbreaking work of the same name.
> 
> The photoset originally refers to Prost/Lauda but I tweaked it a bit, so the fifteen ways are actually glimpse into the Prosenna relationship. There is no chronological order here, and I tried to stay true to real-life events as much as possible. Exceptions are the little episode at Angra dos Reis, the future Prost family and obviously the whole relationship ;)
> 
> I'm not 100% satisfied but it needed to be published, before it haunts my dreams and hard drive forever. Critique and kudos are much appreciated.

**_Offer the wolves your arm only from the elbow down. Leave tourniquet space. Do not offer them your calves. Do not offer them your side. Do not let them near your femoral artery, your jugular. Give them only your arm._ **

The retirement isn't the best solution, nor is it what Alain really wants, but it's the only feasible way. He's aware what everyone will think – yes, he deserves retirement; with four championships under his belt he doesn't have to prove anything. But he could also stay on, go for the fifth, surely? He's in his prime, Fangio's benchmark is entirely within his reach and he would find a drive, so why bow out?

He doesn't want to quit racing, but Williams are hell-bent on getting Ayrton into their car. He also doesn't want to have Ayrton as a teammate again, because he's sure the fallout would be epic. He doesn't want to lose Ayrton, but he cannot admit that to anyone. So, retirement it is. He's making himself vulnerable to criticism, even from Ayron who predictably keeps nagging him. Seriously, the nerve that man has, to suggest he can't race without Alain (he did bloody fine in 1991, didn't he). However, one of the unspoken rules of their relationship is that the most important things remain unspoken, mostly. He can't explain his reasoning, so he leaves them guessing.

 

**_Wear chapstick when kissing the bomb._ **

  
It's just to get the adrenaline out of his system, Alain tells himself over and over, after that first time. It has to be, because the alternatives are too upsetting to even consider.

 

It's just to get it over and done with, Ayrton decides. He's aware that whatever is between is a minefield at the best of times, and now they've gone and added a whole new layer of intimacy to it. But...he's tried to get Alain out of his head and it hasn't worked, so he might as well tackle the problem head on.

 

 

**_Pretend you don't know English._ **

_Je crois que je t'aime._

_Je sais que je t'aime._

_Je t'aime._

Alain whispers in the dead of night, when he's lying alone in bed. He's trying out how the words sound, attempts to get a feel for how his lips move to form them when he's not thinking of his wife. It doesn't feel right, but it also doesn't feel wrong. Mostly, it feels too big, too momentous a thing to verbalise.

_Eu te amo._

Of course it's Ayrton, the bastard. Always too verbose for his own good. Where he even gets the audacity to say out loud what he does, Alain can only wonder. Still, if he has learned anything about the Brazilian in the time that he's known him, it's that he is no coward. Sure, Ayrton sometimes does things backwards and seldom discloses his full intentions (Alain is reminded of how this _relationship_ between them started – the two of them bitching about each other instead of talking like real adults) but sooner or later he always owns up to the truth. Apparently, this is such an instant. 'What,' Alain replies. As if feigning incomprehension could turn back time – they're in too deep and putting words to it will only get them into more trouble. 'You heard me.' Ayrton answers without any inflection in his voice, but when he looks up at Alain, his eyes are burning. 

 

**_Pretend you never met her._ **

  
'He disgusts me.' Alain tells the press after the utter pandemonium of the Japanese GP. He can't possibly tell them that what he actually feels is disappointment, sadness and _blind rage._ The _y_ would understand the rage of course, but why would he feel disappointment? They do not see the betrayal that has occurred, they only saw two rivals fighting tooth and nail. Alain cannot explain that he hoped Ayrton wouldn't do this. He cannot explain _why._ It's easier to pretend Ayrton is nothing to him. 

 

 

_**Offer the bomb to the wolves. Offer the wolves to the zombies.** _

Ayrton's eyes are glaring daggers across the paddock, to where Alain stands chatting to Nelson.

  
He's well aware the two Brazilians hate each other with a passion that everyone thinks is reserved for Alain and Ayrton, and that he's stuck squarely between the frontlines here. Ayrton doesn't speak of Nelson, _ever._ Nelson in turn has quite a lot to say about Ayrton, none of it complimentary. Alain could just tell Nelson to stuff it, but he'd need to explain why he's not joining in on the chorus of 'he's driving like a madman, he's too bloody entitled, he's a dick'. (Half of the time Alain agrees.)

  
It's not a decent move, omitting such an important detail from one's personal life to a good friend, but Alain is worried about how Nelson might take it. Not well, in all likelihood – at the very least he'd probably not understand and believe Ayrton lured Alain into his bed somehow. So he suffers through the rants, as long as Nelson doesn't realise what is actually going on.

 

 

_**Only insert a clean knife into your chest. Rusty ones will cause tetanus. Or infection.** _

Not again. Not gonna happen again, Ayrton thinks as he shifts in his seat. Pole position, his pole position, is on the dirt side of the track, and Bruynseraede has declined to do the fair thing and move the grid. A dirty track for him, and a clear track for his teammate on second position.

‘89 all over? No, Ayrton vows. This time, he will come out on top. He glances over at the other car. Alain is staring right ahead, waiting for the warm-up lap to begin. Last night, Alain had looked at him, had wished him a good race, and kissed him firmly good-night. _No_. Ayrton tramps down the tiny twinge of guilt in his stomach. It‘s racing. There‘s no way Ayrton will not get that title, Alain has to know that, after the stunt he pulled last year. Maybe they will finally be square then, a clean slate and no more old grievances. Maybe.

The signal comes, and with screeching tyres the cars pull away.

 

 

_**Don't inhale.** _

The blue-white car comes to a standstill. The pilot‘s head moves for a fracture of a second, and then everything is still. So still.

Around the paddock, actually, people are running around, marshals are stopping the race and the medical crew are rushing out to the crash site.

Alain however, inside the French TV station‘s small room, doesn‘t dare to breathe. He knows it‘s Ayrton in that car. He‘s survived crashes before, but Tamburello is a vicious, unforgiving strip of concrete run-off area ( _too short, too deadly_ , Ayrton‘s voice says in his head) ending in a merciless concrete wall. Of all the places to use up one‘s good luck, it‘s the worst. But, it‘s Ayrton. He who has won everything. He who called himself destined to race, and to win, and his God seemed to agree. Maybe this is just another time of Ayrton being insanely lucky and infuriating to boot. Still, Alain holds his breath. Don‘t inhale, don‘t upend the equilibrium, don‘t upset the God that held his hand over Ayrton for ten years. Don‘t. _Please, don‘t._

 

_**Realize that this love was not your trainwreck, was not the truck that flattened you, was not your Waterloo, did not cause massive hemorrhaging from a rusty knife. That love is still to come.** _

Alain stands in the paddock, watching the race unfold – a couple of old racers, some established ones and some up-and-coming ones. And him.

 _Ayrton_. Strange fellow. Chatted a mile a minute in his soft, accented English during the ride from the airport and then, once they're off, goes completely nuts, actually fucking pushing Alain off the track. _Ridiculous_. It‘s clear the man has ambition, if he insists on wrecking a Mercedes in an exhibition race just to one-up another driver.

That guy will be a great F1 pilot, if he learns to cool down a little, Alain thinks. Who knows, they could race against one another, in the not-so-distant future. Alain smiles, blinking against the sun as Ayrton comes blasting down to the finish, closely followed by Niki and Reutemann.

 

 

 _ **Use a rusty knife to cut through most of the noose in a strategic place so that it breaks when your weight is on it.**_  


The sun sets over Adelaide, and with it the 1993 season of Formula 1 comes to an end. Ayrton moves through his hotel room almost on autopilot, packing his belongings so he can finally go home to Brazil. Home to São Paulo, where Adriane is waiting.

Alain will be heading for France and his family. The thought physically hurts. All weekend Ayrton‘s tried to ignore it. It‘s very tempting to trick himself into believing that he‘ll come back, it‘s just another sabbatical, Alain won‘t be able to stay away from racing. But the Frenchman has increasingly talked about his kids, even when he‘s with Ayrton, and it _hurts_. This world of retirement is one where Ayrton has no place. Everyone knows they‘re not friends, so there is no way he could come and visit, even a phonecall would be strange. They will each live their lives, as if the last years of fights, make-ups and stolen nights in hotel rooms across the world had never happened.

 

Maybe it‘s for the better, to finally draw a line under the tumultuous past and the Pandora‘s box full of grievances, but right now Ayrton can‘t breathe for fear he‘ll choke on the memories.

 

 

_**Practice desperate pleas for attention, louder calls for help. Learn them in English, French, Spanish: May Day, Aidez-Moi, Ayudame.** _

 

'Tell him we miss him.'  


The words come easily to Ayrton, and that's how he knows how bad it really is. Nothing's really working – the car is shit, the Benetton very suspiciously _isn't_ , his family are suddenly very keen on talking about marriage. In short, 1994 so far is an absolute clusterfuck. It's also the first season Alain isn't on the grid and this time everybody knows the Frenchman isn't merely on a sabbatical. It's for good. Sure, they have seen each other during the offseason, they've talked on the phone and, hell, Alain is still around the paddock. Nevertheless, Ayrton feels the difference like a constant itch just under his skin. His life is upended and on some days he can barely cope. 

What he is actually saying over the radio is: ' _I_ miss you.' 'It means nothing without you.' 'Please, stay with me.'

Ayrton is pleading. Imploring Alain to stay with him, the only constant in his life. He can only hope that Alain understands.

 

 

_**Pretend you made up the zombies, and only superheroes exist.** _

  
The sun over the lagoons of Angra Dos Reis is hotter than over the tarmac of Kyalami and the colours are brighter than anywhere else, at least in Ayrton's opinion. At least for today, his familiar environment is much more beautiful because, finally, Alain is here. The Brazilian Grand Prix is underway this weekend and he has flown over earlier - to get acclimatised or so he told everyone.

And they are both getting acclimatised – to how it is being around each other 24/7 and not having to hide that they‘re even in the same room. The property at Angra is private enough that nobody interrupts them, and there are no motor sports journalists lurking in the undergrowth.

Right now Alain is flailing about in the water, insisting that a fish tried to bite him, and cursing in a colourful mixture of English, French and a few choice words in Portuguese that Ayrton taught him. 'Why does everything south of the equator have to eat you? Or kill you, without the eating bit?‘ Ayrton grins. 'Well you‘re looking very edible, so it‘s your own fault, really.‘ Alain‘s response isn‘t polite but it doesn‘t ruin Ayrton‘s mood in the slightest.  


They have a weekend in Angra. Just the two of them. They‘re inseparable, indestructible.

 

 

_**Pretend there is no kryptonite.** _

Anne Marie stares at him across the breakfast table.

‘The phone rang again last night,‘ she says, flatly. Alain takes a sip of coffee. ‘Yes. Sorry, did it wake you up?‘ Anne Marie exhales, annoyed. ‘It obviously did. Now what I would like to know is who would possibly call in the midle of the night, repeatedly, whom you would get up for, _repeatedly_.‘ Alain leans back, trying his best to seem serene, unperturbed. ‘Oh, that was Nelson, actually. Nelson Piquet.‘ ‘I know which Nelson you‘re talking about, cher, I‘ve even met him,‘ Anne Marie replies, ‘what is the matter that he has to call you at midnight?‘ Alain laughs, a little nervously. ‘I don‘t know really, he didn‘t say. Just wanted to chat. Who knows, maybe he‘s bored.‘ Anne Marie doesn‘t offer a reply to that, thankfully.

Alain doesn‘t know how to explain to his wife that for the past three weeks or so, he‘s been taking calls from Ayrton.

 

 

_**Pretend there was no love so sweet that you would have died for it, pretend that it does not belong to someone else now, pretend like your heart depends on it because it does. Pretend there is no wreck -- you watched the train go by and felt the air brush your face and that was it. Another train passing. You do not need trains. You can fly. You are a superhero. And there is no kryptonite.** _

After the funeral, Alain goes through the motions of being a husband, a father, a man with a job and a purpose.

He does not think about that day in May. He does not think about the season that continues, race after race. He does not think about a new small bronze plaque in a quiet corner of the Cemitério do Morumbi, completely obscured by flowers.

Alain does not think. He breathes, eats, does, sleeps. If he thinks, it‘ll all come crashing down on him and it would bring him to his knees. He's sure he won't be able to get up.

 

 

_**Forget her name.** _

It‘s Easter, a sunny day in April, and the family has gathered at Alain‘s house in Switzerland. Nico and Delphine have brought their rambunctious boys, Sacha is here alone with his little daughter. While the grown-ups are sitting outside, nibbling on the sweet treats and chatting, the children are running around, exploring.

Alain, as the grandfather, gets to chaperone them through his house, answering questions and making sure they don‘t kill themselves sliding down a banister. They‘ve safely made it to the study, their favourite room because of all the pictures, the books, and the huge office chair which they use as a carousel.

‘Grand-père, what‘s this?‘ Jocelyn, his eldest grandchild pipes up, pointing at a picture on the desk. Alain comes to take a look, and swallows. ‘That‘s a picture from when I was still racing. Must have been around 1990, I think.‘ Jocelyn laughs, and elbows his younger brother. ‘Look, Marc, Grand-père had a _lot_ of hair!‘ The boys giggle, but Eloise, Sacha‘s little one, is still staring at the picture. ‘Who‘s that standing beside you?‘ Alain‘s heart clenches, even after decades. He sighs. The girl is perceptive. ‘That, Eloise, is... _was_...a good friend. Maybe I‘ll tell you about him someday.‘

 

‘What‘s his name, Grand-père?‘ ‘His name is – Ayrton.‘

 

 


End file.
